


recollect me darling (raise me to your lips)

by Lizzen



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M, Haunting, Romance, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 20:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12515540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: A recipe for love“i could have loved you,” he says and he means it. she slides in next to him, cups his chin in her shadowy hands. “you love me, present tense, present day,” she says, “and i don’t need you to admit it, i don’t need you to say it, i’m present in your heart every moment. if that isn’t love, what is?”





	recollect me darling (raise me to your lips)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



> A Trick or Treat 2017 treat for rosecake

_"of all my victims, i regret you the most," he says to her, and she winnows her way close to him. "what about mischa?" she asks without any guile. he smiles, charmed by this apparition of his own making, in every way possible. and he says: "are you not one in the same?"_

 

Hannibal pulls the chicken sausage out of its casings and mixes it with the ground meat with a fork; to lighten it, to break it apart. Fresh white breadcrumbs follow, a few cloves of garlic (minced), and more than enough chopped parsley - for flavor and color. Cheeses, then, both Pecorino and Parmesan. Salt, pepper. Milk and a beaten egg. And he combines the ingredients gently, gently. The goal is to make a meatball that is lighter than air. Teaspoon sized, he places them on parchment paper. Pats each one with a small touch of olive oil for browning. Oven is at 350 degrees Fahrenheit and they will be ready after about 30 minutes. Small bites of perfection. He will serve them with a mushroom and leek cream sauce and fresh egg pappardelle, paired with an unoaked Chardonnay. 

This, this, he will serve to his protege, his Abigail, and watch as the sauce lingers on her mouth as she closes her eyes.

 

_“what would you say to me, if i lived,” she says, “if i could suck in oxygen into my lungs and have blood rushing through my veins.” and he thinks on it, really truly thinks on an answer both genuine and heartfelt. “when knife met flesh, how powerful did you feel?” he ask. and she scoffs. “very.”_

 

“I’m a man of action,” he admits when she asks about poison. “And it ruins the meat.” So he teaches her with a dinner knife, a blunt object. Where to maim, where to handicap, where to end a life. He holds her in his arms as she mocks a sharp blow to his heart. “This is good, if you can ever get this close again.” She smiles then, not a very pretty smile, but one that speaks a history, and speaks a future.

There are exercises he demands, and she does them twice a day to strengthen her arms. “A woman,” he says, “is a surprise at every turn. You will surprise more than you know.” And when she plays with the knife in her hands flipping it between the back of her hand to the palm, he nods his head. “You are ready to learn how to carve.”

 

_“my father killed all those girls,” she says, and turns to him. “what is that like? do you feel overwhelmed by death?” there are answers, and there are answers, so what he lands on is this: “do you?” and her laughter fills the room, an infectious kind of mirth._

 

There’s nothing so warming as a hearty soup for lunch on a cold day. Sauteed shallots meet garlic for just a moment alone before joined with chicken stock, premade of course, and frozen peas (no shame in a frozen veg in certain occasions). Salt and pepper. When simmering, Hannibal purees it with an immersion blender till it looks right, a coarse consistency. Taste it, add additional salt and pepper as needed. But what makes it, what makes it shine is in the oven. Slices of meat, of Spanish Serrano ham ever so thinly sliced from the cellar, roasting in an oven at 425 degrees for 5 to 8 minutes. The kitchen smells of salt and pork; delicious and he can hear her move downstairs. Shallow rustic bowls filled with green, the crispy pink meat on top. A splash of his finest olive oil. He will serve it with a vintage Champagne, that rich fizz adding a depth of flavor. 

Slowly, slowly, she eats it. Savoring each bite. There is crusty bread too, at her request, and she dredges it in the remains of her soup, not leaving a morsel behind. She blushes when she looks up, looks at him, and it’s such a lovely color of rose on her pale skin. 

 

_“i could have loved you,” he says and he means it. she slides in next to him, cups his chin in her shadowy hands. “you love me, present tense, present day,” she says, “and i don’t need you to admit it, i don’t need you to say it, i’m present in your heart every moment. if that isn’t love, what is?”_

 

He’s left the role of huntress to Chiyoh for so long, it’s bizarre to have the rifle in his hand and Abigail’s voice at his ear. “Take your time,” she insists, “the deer does not have a busy schedule to attend to.” Her words fill him up like a balloon, and he is learning with each one. An unnecessary skill, of course, but the tables being turned is a delight. “How do I kill with one singular shot?” he asks and she smiles, tells him, of course, and then shows him. 

“A deer is an innocent and you have little need for meat these days,” she tells him when they truss it up, prepare it. “I only agreed to this because you asked.” And he nods, a gracious gesture, and takes her hand. “When Will joins us,” he says, blithely, “he will teach us how to fish.”

 

_“is it lonely,” he asks, “where you are?” and she tilts her head to the side. “i’m here with you, i’ll never be lonely again.” her voice is so real that he imagines this to be too; a real live girl to train and to protect and to nurture. to be his heir to all he has, all he knows. and something in his heart grows soft._

 

He prepares the meal in the following fashion. First a melted knob of Charante butter turns brown in the pan to make the Beurre noisette. Shallots are added, along with minced caper berries. The meat is immediately sliced from the living subject, and placed quickly into a bowl of ice water mixed with lemon juice to firm it up. Dredge it then with seasoned flour and fresh brioche crumbs. A bit of grated fresh black truffle in the Beurre noisette and a squeeze of lemon juice. The meat is then sauteed until brown on each side. There are broad croutons to place it on, and Hannibal dresses it with sauce and slices of truffles, parsley and caper berries. A single nasturtium blossom on watercress achieves a little height to the dish.

There is the bloody saw on the table, which only adds to the thrill, to the experience. There’s a weight to eating a man’s brain, freshly cut and with the man mostly quiet at the head of the table. 

Jean Sibelius’ _Valse triste_ is quietly playing in the background, and Hannibal is very moved by it, but not as much as when he watches Abigail carefully lift a forkful to her mouth. 

She stops, and obviously considers it before tasting. And when she does, Hannibal looks away. Doesn’t want to spy on this moment for her, wants her to own it. He hears her small swallow, and her hand reach for him. “Kiss me,” she says. “I want you to taste him in my mouth.” 

 

_“i would touch you again,” she says, and he shakes his head. “a phantom can only do so much, beloved.” and her laughter fills the room. “a phantom, am i, and what are you? flesh and blood and a beating heart? no, oh no,” she says. “you’re with me, in me, and for all time.” and she grabs his hand, and he, shocked, can feel it._


End file.
